Heavy Breathing
by thesoundofsunshine
Summary: And, the hardest part of living is just taking breaths to stay.


**I sort of got twisted into the story of 65 Red Roses on Live Journal because it was highlighted with the AOL News when I went to check my mail. I just wanted to try something outside of my comfort zone. And, this is dedicated to my friend Mikaela who knows what it's like to live with a life–threatening disease.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, or even the inspiration, or the poem used in the oneshot, or the summary. I honestly can't take credit for a lot of this, just the writing it out.**

There was something strange about being here, surrounded by all these people, under such horrible circumstances. I knew that the end would be coming, but I never imagined it would whisk her away from me so soon. It was an open casket, with a beautiful ceremony of people from all walks to life who knew her at one point in her life. I hadn't even been to her casket yet because I knew it would mean that she was really gone. Forever. Not just a two week, or month long, stint in the hospital.

Many people had said comforting words to me, laid their hands on my shoulder, but all I wanted to do was be wrapped up in her arms. I wasn't even trying to swipe at the tears that rolled down my cheeks. It was pointless because then my hand might as well have been permanently glued to my face. I started to pace in one of the extra room, trying my best to get myself together, and not punch a hole in the wall.

"Honey, it's time for eulogy," I could hear my mom say as she entered my private room. I nodded, taking in one last deep breath. For her.

I walked with my mom into the room, clinging onto her, for fear that I could not walk on my own to her casket. The minister had finished saying that she was in a better place with God now, out of pain. I wanted to believe it, that she was in a better place, but I wanted her to be here. It might have been selfish, but what else could you expect?

My mom led me to the front of the room, standing with my back facing her open casket, and crying in front of everyone. I turned around, in one last vain attempt to pull myself together, but instead I looked at her. She was laying perfectly still, her hands crossed daintily across her chest, with her sparkling brown eyes forever closed. I touched her brunette hair as a fresh wave of crushing sadness crashed over me. I braced myself for the toughest words I would have to speak.

"She was going to be a singer, a world famous singer, with the world in her palm. It was a realistic goal for her since her pipes were like angels singing. That was when she wasn't coughing up a lung, in the most literal sense. Cystic fibrosis was something she had lived with since she was born, but it didn't severely pop up until she turned fourteen; she was unable to blow out her own birthday candles. From there it had been a rollercoaster ride, with ups and down, twists and turns, and surprise endings for all."

I had gotten through the first part with only a few cracks of my voice, and enough tears to fill the room. I took a minute to pause, shutting my eyes, thinking back to when she was free, happy, energetic. Those were the times right after her lung transplant had been a success. She was able to do the things she loved again, like running and skipping and singing and just being able to breathe.

"She always kept a positive view whenever she hit a low point in battling the disease that was overtaking her body. She would just keep saying: What goes down, must come up. It reminded her that every time breathing became impossible, or a lung transplant wasn't available, that there would be an upside."

I took another break because I could just hear her voice in my head repeating the saying over and over again. It took me back to the nights when I rolled her over, so she didn't choke on her stomach bile, or mucous from her lungs. I thought back to the times when she stared at the beeper, that would beep when a lung transplant was available, and she would yell at it to beep. I remembered the times when she was fed through a tube because her weight was dangerously low because she couldn't keep much food down.

"For those of you who don't know, cystic fibrosis is a gene mutation that clogs the lungs, and obstructs the pancreas from breaking down and absorbing food. She opted for a lung transplant because she was a healthy candidate, and it would stop her constant cough and wheezing. The survival rate of a lung transplant would be ninety percent after one year, and fifty percent after five, which was one hundred percent more time for her to live. After her successful lung transplant, she was able to breathe freely, but the Cystic Fibrosis continued to live on in her pancreas and intestines."

I paused yet again because the tears were flowing heavier as I started to devel into her tragic, fast paced decline. I had performed in front of crowd around the world, full arenas, and all. I was never one to back away from an audience, but this was personal, which changed it all.

"After living with barely being able to breathe on her own for six years, she couldn't wait to get out into the world. The first thing she demanded we do after she was released with the promises of healthy, unrejected lungs, was to run along the beach, followed by a hike up the mountain. The doctor quickly extinguished those plans saying that strenuous activity was off limits, leaving her to only walk along in the sand. But, that was fine by her."

I spoke clearly thinking of the happier times in her life. Don't get me wrong, she always had on a bright smile, and some expertly applied makeup, but she was never happier than after her transplant. She was finally able to partake in activities that she always had to sit out for. It also didn't help, that her disease made it nearly impossible for her to have some alone time, unless she was in the hospital, for fear that she would choke to death while unattended.

"The doctors that performed the transplant promised that she was not rejecting her new lungs, which was a very good sign. But, they warned that within the next five years only half of the people who had transplantations survived. Well, Mitchie thought that she had eternal luck, but it wasn't on her side as her health rapidly decreased towards the fourth year and on."

I stopped, getting slightly choked up, which was a common effect for her during her lifetime with Cystic Fibrosis. I couldn't help but think about the times when it seemed like she was back to her old self, suffocating and all. And, to be honest, it scared the shit out of me. It seemed like she was slipping away me, anyone, all over again.

"The doctors assessed that she had chronic rejection, and would need another transplant; they quickly added her to the list. But, it couldn't come fast enough. She spent the last year of her life confined to her hospital room full of love and hope. But, those things alone cannot work miracles. Her last days were well lived with family and friends constantly in her room, supporting her to the end."

I paused again, drooping my head, promising myself that I could and would go on. I needed to stay strong for her. I needed to deliver the messages that everyone needed to know. Plus, I was almost to the close, and then finish with her poem. I took in a deep breath, thinking of all the ones she hadn't be able to take in her life.

"And, you may be asking who I am, and why I am up here delivering her eulogy. Well, I am Shane Gray. And, Mitchie bursted into my life with a bright smile, while I was going through a rough time, at Camp Rock. That was nearly ten years ago. Ten years of being best friends, eight years of being together, seven years of being in love, and five years being married. And, I knew this was a possible ending, but she promised me a fairytale happily ever after."

I stopped as I choked out a sob as my face contorted as I continued to cry even harder than before. The words were even harder to say than to just think about. My mom got up, and hugged me, as my chest continued to wrack. I bit down on my lower lip to stop its constant quivering. My mom rubbed my back, saying that I didn't have to finish. But, I did. I needed to finish for her.

"I just have one last poem that she wrote towards the end. I think it shows her real determination to stay optimistic even though the inevitable end was coming."

Those words were Mitchie's parents cue. The rolled in a large covered picture with a poem. They solemnly nodded at me, before walking to their seats. I placed my hand on the cloth, before revealing what was beneath it. The breathtaking picture of her still made me weak in the knees. Beside her portrait was her poem.

_i feel complete  
__not scared at all._

_i am so entangled in these lives.  
__so needed._

_there just is no possibility to not exist._

_it makes me less scared to die.  
__i'm sitting here tears streaming down my cheeks but i am not sad.  
__i am less alone then i've ever been.  
__i am surrounded in every possible way.  
__lifted up by love  
__swirled  
__hurled  
__curled by love._

_i can't not be here.  
__i can't die._

_because i am part of them.  
__and if my lungs stop working.  
__i still won't die.  
__because they love me.  
__you love me_

_i will live forever in the hearts of those that love me.  
__they will sing when my body is gone  
__and my voice will be there too._

_i am not afraid._

_i will sing  
__i will love  
__i will live_

"Thank you for joining us."

I looked out to the crowd who were crying as hard as me, and the only person crying more was Mitchie's beloved mother, Connie. Her and I had bonded so much to the point that I could tell her anything in my life. I often found myself confiding my fears about Mitchie's condition in her because she understood what it was like. She came over and hugged me, as we cried about the one we missed most. She kissed my cheek, before walking back over to her husband.

"I will always love you, Mitch."

**It is ridiculously late over where I am, but I had to get this done because the swelling emotion would never be like this again. I am proud of the outcome, even though I have never written something quite like this before. I do hope that you review with any thoughts on this piece. I am always looking for constructive criticism.**


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